


Before Blood

by Little_Lat



Series: Blood Ties [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gun Violence, Human Trafficking, One Shot, Prequel, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4588596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lat/pseuds/Little_Lat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel to Blood Ties. </p><p>How did d'Artagnan end up working for the Guard under Rochefort? All d'Artagnan had ever wanted was to see Constance safe. How could everything have gone so wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Just a short one shot from my weird "Blood Ties" universe. Set before the events of the previous story, this fic explores how d'Artagnan ended up working for the Guard. 
> 
> Reading "Blood Ties" before this is recommended! 
> 
> Enjoy! ^^

The van hit a pothole in the road, making the slim figure of his fiancée bounce against d’Artagnan’s chest. His arms tightened subconcously around her waist, his lips pressed a gentle kiss to her wild red hair.

“We must be almost there,” d’Artagnan murmured against her ear, “… My legs are going to sleep.”

Constance gave him a small smile, her hand slipping itself under d’Artagnan’s shirt to lie against the warm tanned skin of his shoulder. There was no source of natural light in the van’s tiny compartment, but there was a grate high on the left wall. Every time their vehicle passed under a street light, the grate let in a flash of light. The light shone against Constance’s pale skin, illuminating her long, thin neck. d’Artagnan let his head nestle on her shoulder, watching her skin as it flashed in the intrusive light.

“Do you think,” Constance began softly, ”That Paris is really like the films?”

D’Artagnan smirked again her smooth skin, “All baguettes and bikes? Stripy jumpers and onion necklaces?”

d’Artagnan’s bad joke was met with an elbow to the ribs.

“You know what I mean…”

Well of course he did, but that didn’t mean d’Artagnan had an answer. He hoped so. Paris had become Constance’s promise land. The love had stemmed from an innocent enough source, a film she had taken children to back in Ukraine. The family who had employed her as a nanny had money to spare on excursions like that, money the little couple could only dream of. The exact name of the film escaped him (some animated film about a rat who wanted to be a chief) but the film had caught Constance’s imagination. After that Paris had been her dream. They had planned to go some day, once there was enough money saved. There had seemed to be plenty of time for that, all the time in the world to live their dreams.

But that was before Constance had lost her job. The parents had called her in late one evening. They appoligised for the situation they had found themselves in. In the current state of political unease between the Ukraine and Russia, it did not seem proper to have a Russian under their employ. People would talk, and the family couldn’t have that. In the end the family had said it would be “unwise” for them to continue her employment. Constance had been heartbroken, for the children she had cared for as if her own for years as much as the work itself. d’Artagnan had promised it would be okay. They could just about afford their single room on only d’Artagnan’s salary. Their small amount of savings would need to be dipped into, but they could survive until Constance found work. And they would have, had d’Artagnan not lost his job the following week for the same reason as Constance. The owner of the bar where d’Artagnan had worked security had received threats over employing Russians. They had apologised for the regrettable decision, but it hadn’t changed the fact the little couple were now completely without income. Their savings had lasted a few months as they had both searched but after a few months with not so much as an interview the money ran out and thing began to look desperate.

That was when Marc Rochefort had walked into their lives. He’d watched, all slicked back blond hair and icy eyes, from a seat in the back of a bar where d’Artagnan had entered. There had been a help wanted sign in the window, but the barman had refused to even take his CV once he heard the boy’s accent. Voices had been raised, tempers had flared and, in the end, d’Artagnan had been escorted out by two of the barmen. Rochefort had slipped out behind them and, once the young man had calmed down, made him an offer that would change his life.

Constance had thought her fiancé was joking at first, someone seemingly willing to smuggle them into the city she dreamed about seemed too good to be true. d’Artagnan could hardly believe it either, but with no money left, their land lord threatening to evict them and no sign of employment on the horizon it didn’t seem like they had another choice. The final decision was made when, two days later, Constance arrived home with a split lip. She’d been slapped by a customer after her she had tried to apply for a job in a shop.

That had been the last straw in d’Artagnan’s mind. If he couldn’t guarantee Constance’s safety, it was time to leave Ukraine. If this Rochefort was willing to offer them a way out? Then so be it.

So seven days later they had begun their journey. There had been four on them all together, Constance, d’Artagnan, a tall dark haired boy called Zhakar and the petite blonde girl named Vavara. They hadn’t talked much in the beginning, but there was only so much silence Constance could take before she felt the need to shatter it. It turned out that Zhakar was like them, a twenty three year old Russian born who suddenly found himself most unwelcome in a place which he used to call home. He wasn’t hoping for much, just an employer who would look past his Russian accent and give him a job.

Vavara was younger, just sixteen, and for the first few days had said next to nothing. She had listened to the other three’s conversation but offered little herself until Constance had settled herself down beside her and began a murmered conversation, just for the pair of them. It turned out, unlike the other three travellers, that Vavara was Ukrainan, an orphan who had grown up passed between different government group homes. The mystery of this journey, she confessed, could not be worse than living in one of those. On the third day Vavara had admitted to speaking no French, which had then begun impromptu lessons with d’Artagnan. It passed the long hours well enough, watching Vavara recite basic French phrases and different verb conjugations, but d’Artagnan had been both surprised and impressed by her ability to commit everything to memory. It was clear that, masked by her quiet nature, Vavara was a very bright girl.

Now though, in the final leg of their journey through the north of France there were no lessons. The four had lapsed into silence a few hours after the sun had set. They were squeezed into the back of a van, hidden in the tight space among boxes, which was why Constance had been taken up residency on d’Artagnan’s knee. Zhakar had passed out first, head rested awkwardly against a cardboard box. Vavara had her knees curled up to her chest, cheek against her knees and eyes only moments behind joining Zhakar in sleep.

d’Artagnan raised his head from Constance’s neck and sighed.

_Would Paris be like the films..?_

“I hope so,” d’Artagnan murmured finally.

Constance snuggled closer to her fiancée, enjoying the warmth of his body against the cool night.

“Me too…”

The pair fell into a comfortable silence as the van continued on its journey.

* * *

 

A little while later d’Artagnan felt the van slow down to a stop. He nudged Constance, who had fallen into a doze on his shoulder.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Are, are we here?”

d’Artagnan nodded as the other two began to stir, “I think so..”

Footsteps jumped down from the driver’s seat and crunched against the cold ground. Muttered voices filtered through the van door, but they were too low to make out. He pressed another kiss to Constance’s hair as the footsteps circled the van. A moment later the door was tugged open, revealing a man they didn’t recognise.

“Out.”

Zhakar was the first to move from the van, followed a moment later by Vavara. d’Artagnan offered Constance a reassuring squeeze before she left the van, before jumping down from the van only moments later.

The group was led through the cold, deserted night, through an unmarked door and into room. It was only mildly warmer inside the bare, little, room. d’Artagnan watched as Constance wrapped her arms around herself.

“Over there,” The man jerked his head, indicating they stand along the longest wall. d’Artagnan’s hand found the small of Constance’s back, a silent promise that he was right behind her as they filed into the line up. He could see the nerves written on Zhakar’s face and Vavara’s lip was clamped between her teeth. Unease churned in the pit of d’Artagnan’s stomach as he watched a different door open. Rochefort entered the room, his shiny polished shoes clicking on the dusty floor. He smiled at the line of tired immigrants, although something flashed in his eyes which unnerved d’Artagnan.

“Welcome to Paris!” Rochefort spread his arms in greeting, “I’m so pleased you could all make it. I apologise for the roundabout route, but I am sure you understand the need for discretion.”

When no one else made a move to speak, d’Artagnan swallowed around his nerves and opened his mouth.

“We cannot thank you enough for this, Rochefort. This is more than any of us dared to hope for, if there is any way for us too –“

“It was our pleasure to help. Nothing turns our stomachs more than watching injustice such as what you all have suffered,” Rochefort offered another one of those smirks which didn’t quite reach his eyes, “However now we do need to discuss the nature of your payment.”

The word was spat of his tongue, propelled with enough force to knock the air from d’Artagnan’s lungs.

Payment? No one had ever mentioned… Payment.

“Well,” d’Artagnan swallowed down his nerves, “Once we get jobs, an income, we can pay you for your help.”

“And I wish I could take your world, Charles-”

d’Artagnan felt his jaw clench at the use of his first name. He loathed that name. Rochefort just continued, if he noticed the boy’s irritation he didn’t mention it.

“-But we have had people skip out on us before. Promise the money only to disappear and never return… We can’t allow that to happen.”

Rochefort clicked his fingers and two more men entered the room, both with handguns clutched in their sides.

d’Artagnan heard Constance’s breath hitch beside him. His eyes slid between the weapons and back up to Rochefort’s face. His smile had twisted itself into something more disturbing. The cold blue eyes slid over each of the four immigrants, taking in their faces.

“The price of your transportation is 30,000 euros. Each.”

“But we came here for work!” Zhakar exploded from his position at the end of the line, “We don’t have _a tenth_ of that between us.”

Rochefort made an attempt at looking sympathetic which came across as holy false, “That is rather unfortunate. That is the price for our services rendered. You can either pay tonight, or accept the offer we have to work of your debt.”

“This was never part of the deal!” Zhakar spat out, “You never mentioned that in Ukraine!”

“We didn’t wish the notion of payment to sway your decision,” Rochefort replied, the curl in his voice made d’Artagnan’s stomach turn, “We wished to help you, but we cannot do so out of the goodness of our hearts.”

Zhakar stepped forward, ignoring the hands which tightened on weapons, “You can’t keep us here like slaves! I won’t be blackmailed!”

“I have no intension of keeping anyone here against their will,” Rochefort spread his hands wide, an imitation of sincerity, “We are not savages, brutes. If you do not wish to agree to my terms, Zhakar, you may leave. The door is right there.”

There was something, off, in his words. d’Artagnan wasn’t sure of what exactly, but Zhakar didn’t seem to notice as he took a step forward.

“Fine.”

The man turned and stalked towards the door. The moment his back was turned Rochefort snapped his fingers. A gun went off, a scream erupted from Vavara and Zhakar crumpled to the ground as if boneless. Blood blossomed along his shoulder blade, the crimson liquid spilling down and staining the dirty floor.

d’Artagnan took half a step forward as he attempted to keep the contents of his stomach inside his body. Perhaps there was time – perhaps he still could help - but Rochefort’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“I wouldn’t, Charles. Unless you wish to join him.”

“Y-You shot him in the back!” Constance sounded like she was choking on her own words, “You said he could leave and you shot him!”

“My dear I gave him the choice of whether to honour his debt,” Rochefort drawled, as if discussing the changing weather, “He made his choice freely, however none of us can be free from the consequences of our decisions.”

Vavara was crying softly, curled against Constance’s side as she clutched to d’Artagnan. His arm wrapped robotically around his fiancée as he tried his best to tear his eyes away from the body of the man he had travelled across Europe with.

Dead… The dead man he had travelled across Europe with…

He felt Constance’s hand twist itself into his shirt, anchoring her to his side.

“What…” d’Artagnan swallowed, “What is the work?”

Rochefort stepped over Zhakar’s legs as if they were nothing more than a lump in a carpet, “We run a series of establishments of the entertainment variety. We are always looking for beautiful woman to staff them.”

“Stripping,” Constance spat the word out as she read through the lines, disgust staining her words, “You want us to be strippers?”

Rochefort flashed his teeth as his gaze settled on Vavara. The blond teenager swallowed as her eyes flicked between the body of a man she had begun to call a friend, and the man who had ordered his death.

“Good honest work for good honest pay. Once your debt is clear you will be free to do as you wish,” Rochefort reached out a finger and trailed it down the sixteen year old’s cheek, “Of course, ma petite, the decision is yours. Do you wish to work for me or join your friend?”

Vavara gave a tiny nod.

“I… I can work,” the word was small, a submission.

“Excellent,” Rochefort snapped his fingers again and one of the gunmen stepped forward.

“Take this little one to The Silver Room. They’ll appreciate a new blond.”

For all of her agreements, Vavara seemed unwilling to release her hold of Constance, and Constance her. It took a firm grip from Rochefort’s man to prize her away. Constance her now free hand to meet the other, clutching d’Artagnan’s shirt they watched Vavara led away, over Zhakar’s body and out the door. He could feel Constance shake against his chest.

This had been a mistake. He could see that now. A huge, glaring, life threatening mistake. How could he have read this situation so wrong? How could he have ignored all the warning signs? All his senses? He had been so desperate to get out of Ukraine he had ignored the danger and walked them straight into the center.

And now he was stuck in this nightmare.

Once the door shut behind Vavara, Rochefort turned his gaze back to the remaining two. His eyebrow rose, voice low in a cruel taunt.

“And the couple! What is it to be? Which of your friends will you join?”

D’Artagnan’s arms pressed Constance to him. No. Neither. He wanted neither he _chose_ neither. What sort of choice was that? Constance sold off to some strip club and him –

“What about me?” d’Artagnan asked, “Unless you’re taking strippers of all persuasions?”

Rochefort’s eyes narrowed at, unsure if d’Artagnan was making fun of him.

“We have a constant need for labourers. People with bruit strength. I’m sure you fit the bill.”

“And what if I work of both debts?” d’Artagnan asked. Constance tugged back. d’Artagnan was sure she was glaring at him but he carried on, “So what… 60,000 euros? I work all 60,000 euros off and Constance can go?”

Rochefort rubbed a hand over his chin, weighing the options in front of him, “But how can I be sure you won’t take a chance to escape and reunite with your girlfriend?”

“I won-“

“I am actually in need of a new bodyguard… However I will need some assurance of your loyalty,” An idea sparked in Rochefort’s gaze which sent ice thundering through d’Artagnan’s veins, “Take her!”

“No!” d’Artagnan’s feet stumbled backward, dragging Constance with him until his back hit against the unyielding brick wall, nowhere else to run. When hands grabbed for Constance d’Artagnan hit out wildly, cursing as hands pinned his arms back and tugged backwards, out of Constance’s grip. He watched as the other man encircled her thin waist, dragging her firmly backwards and out of his reach. Why wasn’t she fighting? d’Artagnan threw his weight forward, his arms wrenching back behind him as he tried to reach her.

“Don’t you – don’t you dare you. Hurt her and I will –“

“Stop,” Constance fear cracked voice plunged d’Artagnan into silence. He followed her panicked gaze down and for the first time took in the gun pressed against the side of her rib cage, “d’Artagnan please.”

The man went limp as understanding crashed over his body and knocked the fight out of him. He looked wildly from the hand gun to Rochefort, desperation slicing into his words.

“Whatever you want,” he promised, his eyes flitting between the gun and Rochefort’s smug face, “I’ll do whatever you want of me just – tell him to put the gun down. Let her go and I will do whatever you say!”

“You work for me, directly for me, until the debt is clear,” Rochefort picked a piece of dirt from his sleeve as if the conversation was boring him, ”Your girl can work behind the scenes in one of our clubs – an insurance policy if you will – to ensure your full commitment.”

“No more deals, d’Artagnan,” Constance begged. Perhaps she was right. Deals had got them into this mess in the first place, but how could d’Artagnan afford to be picky when a gun was pressed to her -

“I’m growing tired…” Rochefort sighed and snapped his fingers. The gun was raised, this time the barrel was pressed to her head, the metal ground against Constance’s temple. A low whimper ripped from somewhere in her throat.

“Stop," d'Artagnan begged, "Stop just –“

“It stops when you make a decision, Charles!” Rochefort snapped, “One way or another it will stop.”

“Don’t, please d’Artagnan,” There were tears in Constance’s eyes, “Not for me. Don’t do this for me…”

But it was not even a decision. Not really. There was only one choice d’Artagnan could make.

“Fine!” The word came out mid choke, “Fine – I’ll do as you want. Whatever you want just don’t – please, don’t hurt her.”

“A smart decision,” Another finger snap and the gun was lowered, “Take her to The Silver Room. They could use her there.”

Strong arms began to pull Constance backward, towards the door and out of sight. d’Artagnan tried his best to lunge forward, but it was like trying to pull against solid rock.

“It’s okay, Constance. It’s going to be okay. I promise,” d’Artagnan’s eyes locked onto hers, “You hear me? I love you!”

Constance nodded, her chin raised in the defiance despite the tears staining her cheek, “I love you too.” She didn’t fight the man who guided her backward, towards the door. d’Artagnan just stood helplessly, watching, the love of his life as she was tugged from the room.

“I think one meeting a month will suffice, if you both earn it…” Rochefort’s hand landed heavily on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. The boy surprised the urge to shudder. He had no choices now, d’Artagnan could see that. Rochefort controlled the most important thing in his life, the person for which he would dive into Hell itself to protect. With that power he controlled him wholly and without exception. Rochefort had ensured his loyalty all right….

“Welcome to the Guard, Charles. You never know, you might come to like it here.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Love to hear what you thought ^^


End file.
